


and it's come to claim her

by KelseyO



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drug Use, Gen, Mentions of Suicide, vague allusions to soccercop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyO/pseuds/KelseyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve gotta go,” he says, “I’m sorry,” and then the line cuts out.</p><p>The pills are in her hand and on the back of her tongue before she can recall putting the phone down—pure muscle memory at this point, like when she’s three hours into feeding fabric through her sewing machine and no longer worries that she might prick her finger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and it's come to claim her

**Author's Note:**

> Post-2x02. Oneshot for now, but I might add more if the next episode gives me similar feelings. Title from "Breath of Life" by Florence + The Machine.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, “I’m sorry,” and then the line cuts out.

The pills are in her hand and on the back of her tongue before she can recall putting the phone down—pure muscle memory at this point, like when she’s three hours into feeding fabric through her sewing machine and no longer worries that she might prick her finger.

It’s white wine tonight, because red reminds her of blood and blood reminds her of what she did to Aynsley; ironic, given that there wasn’t even any blood involved, or maybe just stupid and irrational. But whatever the case, her hand won’t stop shaking and, god forbid she spills any of it on herself and ends up with more evidence to hide from Donnie, she refuses to risk becoming a modern-day Lady Macbeth.

Her throat tightens at the thought of her husband, a man so tactless that he stumbled right into her monitor bait and even got caught, and yet so cunning that he survived an hour at the end of her hot glue gun without spilling his slightly excessive guts about his role in it all. So cunning that their next door neighbor seemed a far more obvious threat; that Alison felt justified in letting her _die_.

Another long ( _long_ ) sip and she tries to figure out what Felix would say if he were here talking her down, rather than road tripping into the sunset with Sarah and Kira, but her brain makes a U-turn and she instead finds herself thinking about trust. She trusts Cosima because she values science and logic and privacy and rules (save for the marijuana, but Alison isn’t really allowed to judge her for that anymore). She _finally_ trusts Sarah after all the energy she spent loathing her for so callously slipping into Beth’s skin, into Beth’s life, because she’s seen how far Sarah will go to protect the people she cares about, and it’s difficult to be wary of someone with a heart like hers.

But she’s grown to trust Felix maybe more than anyone else in her life—she’s not sure if she would’ve been able to sit through that intervention, or be quite so blunt with her “loved ones” about their own indiscretions without him there as a hand-holder and wingman—and now here he is, abandoning her in the middle of a crisis and with no warning whatsoever, just like—

She nearly chokes mid-swallow and tries to get her stupid bottom lip under control by pressing the rim of her wine glass more firmly against it, until she can’t feel it trembling anymore. She’s not even drinking at this point, just sitting still and trying to keep breathing, and maybe figure out her next move. Felix told her to call Cosima, but she’s hardly in a position to give Alison advice on any of this: she’s sleeping with her (apparently double-agent) monitor, for heaven’s sake, and she didn’t kind-of-kill her next-door neighbor… and besides, they’re probably too busy defiling Felix’s bed (again) for her to be of any real comfort.

Her hand tips more wine into her mouth without any conscious instruction on her part, because new thoughts are assaulting her like a golf club to the jaw. Thoughts about how Cosima has Delphine, and how Sarah has Felix, and how she thought she had Felix too, but no—she’s second place, maybe even third with Kira in the running.

She’s not a priority; she isn’t _anyone’s_ priority.

Not that that’s always been the case, she thinks as she wipes away the tears with one hand and pours another glass of wine with the other. She used to have Beth.

It’s all so twisted together now, isn’t it? She wishes every day that Beth weren’t dead, but if Sarah hadn’t seen it happen and taken her place, if Cosima hadn’t reeled her into their little circle, Alison might never have met Felix, and god knows what she’d have done without him these last few weeks.

But now he’s gone, and he says it’s only for a little while, but Sarah didn’t come back for almost a year the last time, and Alison can’t see him leaving Sarah or Kira just to keep a promise to her.

Promises, stupid promises. Dr. Leekie promised that if she signed that contract, he would remove her monitor and she could have a normal life again. Donnie swore he had no idea what she was accusing him of—a big fat lie that she let herself believe, because it was so much easier that way. Just like she believed that Felix was her friend and confidant, which is obviously not the case, because friends don’t abandon you; not to leave town with their foster-sister, and not to leave their _life_ via speeding train.

She can’t see the wine in her glass through the tears, which tells her she should obviously fill it up again, but her hands are shaking again and she wishes Beth would have just _talked_ to her. She thought they told each other everything, so why did the suicide come out of nowhere? There are supposed to be warning signs, right?

How could Beth have been so unhappy?

The question sends a jolt through her system, and the room is suddenly very quiet as she looks down at her glass of wine, at the pills waiting patiently inside their bottle, at the places where her fingers glisten from wiping the tears from her eyes, her cheeks; everything is clear now.

It’s her fault Aynsley is dead.

(She takes a sip.)

Her husband is her monitor.

(She takes a sip.)

Felix is gone.

(Only a few dribbles of liquid hit her tongue.)

It’s strange, how much heavier the wine bottle gets every time she pours herself a new glass.


End file.
